


Tychodaemon

by Dr_Doomsduck



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Daemons, Gen, Magic Reveal, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Doomsduck/pseuds/Dr_Doomsduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he meets Merlin, Arthur assumes that his Daemon is a tiny little thing, hidden somewhere in a crevice of his shirt, or in his hair.  Attila on the other hand, immediately notices something is ‘off’ with him, and carefully treads around Merlin while Arthur easily wrestles him into a grappling hold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tychodaemon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дело о деймоне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13014375) by [green_pastry (Weis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weis/pseuds/green_pastry)



The first time he meets Merlin, Arthur assumes that his Daemon is a tiny little thing, hidden somewhere in a crevice of his shirt, or in his hair. Attila on the other hand, immediately notices something is ‘off’ with him, and carefully treads around Merlin while Arthur easily wrestles him into a grappling hold. It’s only once they’re alone on the training-field, hours later that Attila tells him about the strange lacking and Arthur becomes suspicious. After all, everyone knows that sorcerers can keep a significant distance between them and their Daemons. His father says it’s because their magic is so vile not even their own souls would want to be near it. Arthur’s not really sure if that’s true, but he’s not taking any chances on the matter. So, when Gaius comes to ask for the release of his new apprentice, he promptly asks about it.

“My lord, he _has_ no Daemon.-” Gaius tells him, and the small snake on his shoulder slithers away from view. It offers no further insight, but then again, Elvira allegedly hasn’t spoken since before Arthur was born. Instead, Gaius is left explaining the rest of it. “- It was taken from him as a child. Rogue-sorcerers attack, you see. Very tragic.”

Tragic indeed. Arthur can’t imagine living a life without his. Even if having both a _male_ and a _servant’s_ Daemon is a downright disgrace, he would never give up his big mastiff for the world. Who else would he share the frightening burden of the crown with? Who else would keep him company in the early hours of the morning, when his work is far from finished? Who would he have held onto as a child, during those frightening storms roaming over Camelot?

His hand automatically reaches out, and as always, Attila’s head is there, leaning against his knee.

Without a Daemon…

You might as well be dead.

It’s pity, then, that makes Arthur agree to the release because obviously life has already punished Merlin enough, and adding another burden to it over some minor scuffle would be downright cruel. Still, he has to save face, and a lesson is in order. So Merlin is given the stocks for his behaviour, and Arthur vows to be more polite the next time they meet.

Predictably, that doesn’t work out.

“How’s the kneewalking going?” Is the best Arthur can come up with when Merlin passes him in the street, and he can hear Attila’s disapproving huff coming from his side. He ought to be nice, because people who have lost their Daemons are allegedly weaker, more servile and slow in the head.

Merlin is everything but.

He challenges Arthur, insults him _again_ and then somehow Arthur ends up chasing him down the streets with a mace.

“Why would you even do _that?-_ ” Attila whines in pain as Arthur tries to remove a nail out of his own foot. “-We were going to be friendly, and kind, and maybe make an actual mate for a change!”

“Obviously, he didn’t want to friends.”

“Well no, not after you started acting like a royal prat, no.”

“Are you quoting him now?!” Just for kicks, Arthur pulls on the nail again, and watches Attila pathetically roll over on the bed. He’s always been less impressive than he looks.

“Arthur! He’s all alone! You can’t blame him for being a little bit…out there.”

“And I wouldn’t, if he didn’t insist on being a prick.”

“Oh come on! He’s just doing that because he doesn’t want our pity. I mean, have you ever wanted pityfor me being…”

Wholly unsuitable for a prince of Camelot, is what Attila is trying to say, but neither of them can actually bear to speak the words out loud. Because maybe Attila isn’t right for a prince of Camelot, he’s certainly perfect for Arthur.

“No. Of course not! We don’t need _pity._ We are fine as we are!”

“And so is he. So be nice. Genuinely nice for a change.”

“Did you just imply that we should be nice out of pity while at the same time also implying that we should not pity him?”

“I’m saying you should be understanding. There’s a difference, Arthur. And be nice, you…arse.” There’s a twinkle in Attila’s eyes, and a swish in his tail, and Arthur being who he is, can’t let that particular challenge go to waste. His tools are dropped as quick as lightening, and he reaches out to grab one of the skin-folds on the side of Attila’s neck. Who yelps, and then retaliates by putting one of his huge paws on Arthur’s face. After that, it’s a playful wrestling match for control which ends with both parties lying on the rug, across from each other and absolutely exhausted.

“I am nice.” Arthur murmurs, practically face down in the soft material.

“You are.-” Attila amends. “- you just have a very peculiar way of showing it.”

Two days later, much to everyone’s surprise, Merlin saves his life. Neither Arthur nor Attila know what exactly they did to deserve such an act of loyalty, but it certainly cements the idea that Merlin deserves to be treated with Arthur’s peculiar way of nice.

So nowadays, the first thing Arthur hears when he wakes up is:

“Hey Merlin.”

“Good morning, Attila.”

See, it’s proper etiquette to respond to a royalty’s Daemon with the same titles as you would use to address its owners.

But neither Merlin nor Attila are very prone to proper etiquette.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“No. What day is it?” There’s a smile on Merlin face, judging by the tone of his voice.

“It’s hunting day.” A tail flicks Arthur in the face, he pushes it away before rolling over.

“Better get our prince out of bed, then.”

A large, heavy weight lands on his chest, and before long, he’s pushed out of the comfort of his pillowfortress by his own Daemon. It’s unfair how the two of them have learned to team up like that. Attila belongs to Arthur, not Merlin. Still, he seems to be set on playing ‘replacement Daemon’ for whatever it is Merlin’s lost and okay, they’re not _touching_ and of course Attila can’t actually leave Arthur’s side, but whenever Merlin’s with them, he’s more often bantering with him than he is with Arthur.

This is odd, because Attila isn’t some loose-lipped chatterbox. Generally he only speaks when being spoken too, except of course when it’s just the two of them. It’s a habit grown from his father’s policy of ‘not revealing the nature of Arthur’s Daemon until it’s strictly necessary’. Not that Attila looks in any way female. But still, when he opens his mouth and the deep rumble comes out, people are often shocked.

Merlin, not so much.

Then again, Merlin trumps their freakishness by leagues and Arthur supposes that to him the very idea of normalcy would be to have a Daemon, regardless of what kind. So perhaps Attila and Merlin chatting about in the background isn’t such a bad thing, especially not when they reach the throne-room and it’s replaced by a painful silence under his father’s gaze.

It’s a short instruction of what they are to do today, even so, Augusta, Uther’s buzzard, carefully soars down from her place on his shoulder and lands on Attila. Arthur doesn’t even need to look to know she’s doing it. He can feel the weight of her as if she were on _his_ shoulders and the painful nip around his ears when she gives one to Attila for trying to speak up.

Still, the meet can only last for so long, and soon the two of them are blissfully free to instruct the knights on their role in this particular hunt.

Or at least, that’s how things are _meant_ to go.

Instead, Morgana comes running out on the courtyard in a garment that is terribly unfit for the public. Her Daemon follows, but it’s almost an afterthought, because the fox’s ears are flat in his neck, and the black hairs on his back are standing to attention. Whatever dream she’s had, it must’ve been terribly disturbing if it’s capable of upsetting even the aloof Prasutagus. Attila carefully snuffles at him, and for once, Pras allows a careful lick to the cheek. Arthur on the other hand, can’t afford to be so generous; instead, all he can offer is Merlin to send her back inside, where it’s safe, where she isn’t scrutinized by dozens of knights.

The hunt of course, becomes a catastrophe. The knights split off with him and Merlin, the Questing beast lashes out, and all Arthur’s hears is Attila’s low whine. He briefly considers the possibility that he’s stepped into another nail, but then loses consciousness all the same.

When he wakes, it’s only for a moment. He’s being carried, either by knights or by a horse, it’s hard to tell. All he can see is the clear skies above him. There’s a bird, circling them. It’s large, larger than it ought to be, and maybe blue. Before he can tell anyone about it though, the darkness creeps up on him again.

Arthur’s been wounded before, he’s even been out cold before, but this time is different. Before now, there would always be Attila, carefully clinging to him, wordlessly urging him to come back. This time, it feels as if Attila is slipping away from him, his presence becoming weaker and weaker with every breath Arthur tries to take. He can’t see him, can’t hear him anymore, and with every step he takes the darkness shifts and turns into a desolate landscape filled with dim shadows _._ In the background of his struggle however, he can hear the voices.

“You're not going to die, Arthur. I'm telling you.-” That’s Gwen, or at least, he thinks it might be.

“No, you shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a prince, it’s not…proper.” He can’t tell who that is.

“Shush, Harold. I need to…this has to happen, alright?”

“Fine, if you must.” Her little mouse then. The one he spotted hiding in her hair once or twice when they were in Ealdor.

She continues telling him what an _amazing_ king, he’ll apparently be, but all Arthur can see is the insurmountable loneliness if he doesn’t find Attila, and soon. So, he travels onwards, to places that don’t really exist. He stands at the edge of a lake, looking for Attila. The shadows are people now. They’re everywhere, crowding the land, and they’re all like Merlin: Daemonless and alone. However, unlike Merlin, they _are_ weak, slow, desolate and defeated in the same way Arthur feels now.

“Attila!”

Their empty gazes turn to him. There is a disgusting amount of pity in their eyes, as well as condescending glares.

“Attila!”

Panic strikes at the heart of Arthur, why won’t they help him? Why is he the odd one out for wanting his soul back? Who are these men and women? What if this is it? What if he’s died without even noticing it?

“Attila!”

Then, something taps him on the shoulder. He turns around. It’s a man. His pale skin and nebulous eyes separate him from the rest of the crowd, and in a way, if Arthur stares at him long enough, he sees a strange likeness in him, as if they’ve known each other all his life.

“Come along now. It’s time to-”

The stranger doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because a force mightier than anything Arthur’s felt before drags him away. Out of the land, and into the dark again. At first it’s frightening, but then, there’s a nudge, a softness pushing at the edge of his mind, urging him to come back to the living.

_Attila._

A familiar hum resonates through him, and Arthur would have let out a sob of relief, had he been able to find his own body again. Instead, he holds onto the cloudy part of his soul that is Attila and allows himself to slowly return to Camelot.

It takes him a few weeks to physically recover from his injuries, but his brush with death lingers far longer and leaves far more doubts in his mind than Arthur wishes it would. More and more, when he looks at Merlin, he remembers those painfully frightening moments alone. So, one night, when they’re away from the castle, and he’s sitting by a campfire with Attila contently sleeping against him, Arthur asks him.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?” Merlin puts away the last of the dishes.

“You know. Not having a…daemon.”

He hears Merlin’s breath catch and wonders if it was right to ask after all.

“I don’t know? What’s it like having one?”

“So you don’t remember yours?”

“Not as so much. I was very young when it happened.”

“You don’t even know if it was a he or a she?”

It had to have been a she, logically speaking, because Merlin’s obviously male. Still, he can’t help but ask, just in case, just to be sure he’s the only one whose...

Merlin laughs, as if this is some secret joke Arthur isn’t privy to.

“No. I never did know.”

“Did it have a name, then?”

“Ezra.” He whispers. “My Daemon’s name was Ezra.”

“Isn’t it lonely this way?” Arthur’s hand clenches around the fur in Attila’s neck.

“Sometimes. But it’s not as painful as you being separated from yours. It’s just…quiet.”

He refrains from asking questions after that, but still has trouble understanding what it _is_ like for Merlin then. He acts normal, or well, somewhat normal-ish maybe, but he certainly doesn’t seem to buckle under the constant pain that nearly tore Arthur apart during his near-death experience.

The mystery of Merlin remains what it is for almost a year, and it isn’t until after his next brush with the nature of mortality that Arthur unravels it. Yes, he’s been wounded, but there’s a dragon terrorizing Camelot, so Arthur mans up and sets out to find the one person who can stop this beast. Well, he tries, and then sort of passes out. Again. When he comes to, there’s a vaguely annoyed looking Attila nearby, and _another enormous dragon hanging over him._

Immediately, he reaches for his sword and tries to impale the great copper beast, but it merely laughs in his face.

“Arthur, no, no, no.-” Attila swerves between his feet and effectively tackles him. They both wince when wound on his chest hits the ground. “-This one’s not actually a dragon, you dolt.”

“Then what the hell is this…-”

“Kulshedra. Call me Kulshedra, lest your tiny mind comes up with something more unflattering, and I am the other half of the man you seek.” Her voice is ancient, and her silver eyes dismiss Arthur almost immediately after gazing upon him.

“Y-you’re a daemon? But you’re so… _big._ ”

Attila puts his head down in despair.

“And you’re quite rude for a human, but I have yet to discredit you of being one, haven’t I?”

“I just don’t-”

“Yes, yes. Quite. Now toddle off. I’ve grown bored of you.” She yawns, waves him off with a large paw, and then retreats back into a cave Arthur’s not sure will fit her.

Once he’s outside, it becomes clear that the man attached to the dragon is as much help as she was. Balinor refuses to come and insults his father to boot. Still, he saved Arthur’s life, so whatever, he can stay in his cave. they’ll find some other way to defeat the monster destroying his home.

Less important, but equally worrisome is Merlin’s odd behaviour. Perhaps he worries over Camelot, or maybe it’s something Balinor said, but whatever it is, it’s keeping him quiet for most of the day, not even Attila can distract him with mindless chatter.

At first Arthur contemplates going back to ask Balinor to teach him whatever trick he’s used to get Merlin to shut up, but the more time passes, the more annoying the silence becomes.

Eventually, out of pure desperation, he starts poking Merlin with a stick. It works, but of course, exactly at the wrong moment. Because not a second later, Balinor is standing in front of them, and well, Merlin becomes the same ball of awkwardness he was ten minutes ago. Arthur grimly notes that Kulshedra is nowhere to be found, and the truth of why Balinor hates Uther becomes painfully clear.

He’s a sorcerer.

No wonder Arthur healed so quickly under his guidance.

Not that it helps him on the long run, because Balinor is run through by one Cenred’s swords not a day later.

Arthur is unbelievably angry.

Merlin is inexplicably shattered.

Whereas the night before, spirits had been high enough for Arthur to go to sleep early and safely, tonight they are so low he might as well, because his father will surely kill him tomorrow anyway. Still, the knowledge that he’s failed his people in the most preventable way possible chases any notion of real rest away, and before long, Arthur is roughly drawn out of some unpleasant dreams by nothing more than the guilt eating at him. Guilt over the dragon, guilt over Morgana missing, and guilt over whatever else his father might feel the need to push upon him.

The fire is low, and Merlin, who was supposed to stand guard, is missing.

His first instincts tell him that the idiot has probably gone off to piss or something, but again, their once healthy campfire is now barely more than embers, indicating that if Merlin wandered off, he did so quite a while ago.

He nudges Attila awake with his foot and motions him to be silent. There are no direct enemies in sight, but it’s probably best not to draw attention to themselves. On that note, Arthur kicks some sand over the dying embers, before carefully drawing his sword. There are tracks. Merlin’s no doubt, since they lead from the camp to further into the woods. It’s nearly impossible to trace foorprints in the dark, but then again, Merlin has never been a very subtle man, and there are broken branches and shuffled leaves _everywhere_. There’s no sign of a fight, no sign of a struggle, and if anything, the steps appear rather leisurely, swerving here and there, but not so much that Arthur would suspect something is wrong.

Attila has his nose to the ground and confirms what he already knows: Merlin snuck off on his own accord, and there was no-one guiding his hand.

It eases the nerves within him slightly, but only until he hears a frightening noise in the distant: Sobbing, distinctly recognizable as Merlin’s. It’s loud, unforgiving and goes on and on and on until Arthur can’t stand the very noise. He races towards the noise, Attila already ahead of him. It’s clumsy moving through roots and the unsteady rocks of the forest-floor, but it doesn’t matter, because something has gotten to _Merlin_ and they will _get_ him back.

There’s a clearing up ahead.

Ten paces and a hop over a felled tree.

They’re closing in on the wailing.

Four paces.

Attila is already there.

He’s stopped.

Two.

Scared eyes turn to Arthur.

He makes an abrupt halt himself.

Because there _are_ no bandits torturing Merlin, there are no witches or other humans to be observed. No, what’s sitting there, on the grass, in the pale moonlight is yet another dragon. Not red, or copper, but a startling blue. A shade lighter than the night-sky, but much darker than the one at daylight. Its head is hunched forward, paws carefully cradled around…around Merlin.

He’s sitting there, leaning against the dragon, firmly holding onto the large snout, mere inches away from rows upon rows of sharp teeth, and more than that, he’s crying.

“That…” Attila whispers, and he understands.

 _That_ is not ordinary dragon. _That_ is like Kulshedra. Hell, it’s even bigger than Kulshedra. But still, it’s a daemon. And given that Merlin’s touching it…

His breath catches.

“Arthur Pendragon.-” when the words boom across the clearing he startles. So does Merlin, who scrambles up, while Attila’s tail hides precociously between his legs, “- I heard you were a courageous man, so why don’t you come out and face me instead hiding in the shadows like a coward.”

“A-Arthur?” Merlin says, as he very fruitlessly tries to hide a thirty foot dragon behind his back.

“Hello.” He steps into the moonlight, unsure of what to say otherwise to this complete stranger he thought he knew.

“Please don’t hurt-”

“You lied to me.” He can’t manage to put anger or fear or disgust behind the words, because that’s not really what he’s feeling. In fact, Arthur’s not sure what his emotions are doing at the moment.

“Yes. I…I don’t…I’m sorry.” Merlin tries to wipe the tear-streaks from his cheeks.

“You told me you were alone.” His mind has ran off, and all that comes out of his mouth are the barest of facts he can recollect.

“I know I did, but we couldn’t come to Camelot together, I mean, think of the looks people would give us, there would’ve been-”

“You told me you were alone, but you’ve got _her_.” And what a beast it is.

“Yes, but-” Merlin starts, but Arthur can’t let him finish.

“But she wasn’t at Camelot. She wasn’t near you. We’ve known each other for _two years_ and I’ve never seen her.”

“We kept a distance. Ezra would hide in the woods, I would visit there when it was safe to do so.”

“But that’s miles from…Does that mean that you’re…that you…?”

Another brief sob escapes Merlin. Or maybe it’s Arthur’s. It’s hard to tell right now.

“Yes. I have magic, Arthur. But I only use it for you. Just you. No-one else.”

He nods.

Because really, what else is he supposed to do? Looking down at Attila, Arthur can see the plea for mercy in his eyes already: He doesn’t want to give up Merlin, daemon, no daemon or witch-daemon, it doesn’t matter to Attila.

But what about his father? The law?

“We’ve broken it before.” Attila answers without ever hearing the question.

That they have, many times before.

Arthur looks at Merlin again.

Yes. If there’s any law worth breaking at any moment in time, then this one, in the here and now, is probably the best choice.

He nods again.

Merlin lets out a small whimper? Or a giggle? Or something in between?

“But…you were crying?-” His mind suddenly skips back to before. “-What happened? Did something go wrong? Is it…are you alright?”

“Oh, that. It was just…Balinor.” A sharp exhale.

“Balinor?-”

Well, Merlin had seemed awfully upset about the man dying.

The man who conveniently had black hair, magical powers and a witch-daemon in the shape of a dragon.

“-Who was he?” Arthur’s almost afraid to hear to hear the answer.

“He…uhm-” Merlin avoids his gaze, and instead raises his eyes to the sky. “- He was my…father.”

There aren’t much tears this time, and to be honest, the only way Arthur can tell he’s actually crying is by the gentle shake of his shoulders. But before he can even imagine how good of an actor Merlin must be if he’s managed to somehow keep all of this from him, Arthur’s thrown his sword on the ground and clumsily, awkwardly tries to hug him.

After all, Merlin’s father had just _died in his arms_ and Arthur had somehow managed to miss it completely.

He really is a prat, isn’t he?

From the corner of his eye, and through half of Merlin’s hair, he can see Attila carefully trying to approach Ezra. Arthur’s not afraid she’ll eat him per se, but it’s still imposing, especially given the fact that Attila is usually the biggest Daemon in the field.

“…Arthur…” A muffled voice comes from his shoulder.

“What?”

“You can let go now.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. no problem.” He tries not to miss the warmth or scent of Merlin as he lets him walk out of his arms. Once they’re standing a few respectable inches away from each other, it’s just a matter of overcoming the painful silence between them.

“So…What do you think?” Merlin gives him a watery smile before motioning to his Daemon.

“She’s…She’s quite something.”

“Correction: She is not a she, thank you kindly.” A large claw points at Arthur, while Ezra’s eyes remain focussed on Attila; now chasing after the tip of the dragon’s tail.

“Ezra…-” Merlin mumbles, and gives the claw a slap.“-…be nice.”

“I said ‘thank you’, didn’t I?” Ezra gently pokes him back.

That ‘thank you’ was not meant to convey gratitude so it really doesn’t count. Now be. Nice.” He knocks against her…his…its? Claw once more.

“Are you male, then?” Attila blurts out, still happily trying to catch the small blue tip floating a few feet above him.

“No.”

“Then what…?” Arthur tries again.

“Little bit of both, little bit of neither.” Ezra lazily rolls over onto the grass.

“What do we call you, then?”

“Well, Ezra’s a good start. But I’ll take Ze and Zir if his royal pratness can be arsed with it.” There’s a teasing note in _zir_ voice, one that reminds him an awful lot of Merlin in one of his mischievous moods.

“Alright. _Ze_ is quite something then.”

The dragon gives him a toothy grin, and returns to teasing Attila.

“I’m sorry-” Merlin ducks his head. “- Ezra’s not used to court-etiquette, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect a daemon of yours to be, really.”

A smile.

“We should head back to camp soon.”

“Yes. Grab our stuff…set it up here.”

“What? Really? We don’t have to. I mean, Ezra can stay out here. Nothing ze hasn’t done before.”

“I know. But we’re going to. And that’s an _order_.”

Tomorrow they’ll go back to Camelot, tomorrow they’ll figure out how to defeat the dragon, the _real_ dragon. Maybe with Merlin’s magic. And after that, they’ll go looking for Morgana again. Again, probably with Merlin’s magic. Tomorrow Arthur will set up a plan, he’ll find a place to hide Ezra, one that’s closer to Merlin, but further away from danger. He’ll think of a way to keep Merlin far away from his father, and he’ll be strict and serious and maybe even a little mean if he needs to be.

Tonight however, Arthur decides he probably ought to follow Attila’s advice and be _nice_ for a change.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not making any money off of this. I mean, I wish I was because owning both a TV-series and a phenomenal book trilogy would make me a rich, rich bitch. But I don't. So, I'm not.


End file.
